


Whiskey Tango Foxtrot

by mataglap



Series: Piece of Cake [2]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Fix-It, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-29
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2018-09-13 01:12:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9099889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mataglap/pseuds/mataglap
Summary: Hanzo keeps his word.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Heeey, guess what? It's 3am again.
> 
> (The story is a direct continuation of "Piece of Cake"; I decided to make it a separate work rather than a second chapter because of the significant *cough* jump in rating.)

Jesse McCree is not a nice guy. He's really not. No one with his kill count could ever qualify as _nice_. He does his best to convince the world he's a badass, but he's not that, either; anybody who's ever met Gabriel Reyes knows how high that particular bar had been set. Let's say he's firmly on the nastier side of average, with an ornery streak a mile wide and a deeply ingrained lack of respect for authority. 

Somehow, though, his hard-earned reputation and carefully maintained image go to shit the moment Hanzo Shimada is anywhere in the vicinity, and he turns into the world's biggest, maudlin, disgusting sap.

He's gone through all the stages with Hanzo. First there was a "what the hell, no real person looks like that" and the inevitable crush that followed; then there was a "holy hell, the guy's nasty" and the sort of frustrated resentment unique to jerking off while thinking of someone who really doesn't deserve it; then, there was the reluctant awe of watching Hanzo utilize his ridiculous ninja skills.

After that came the realization of how much Hanzo had changed in the mere months that passed since Genji had dragged him, kicking and screaming, into the ranks of newly restored Overwatch. McCree had had the displeasure of having been present at the fateful, late August dinner in Gibraltar, where Hanzo and Genji got into what amounted to a violent shouting match; it wasn't pretty, especially after Angie got involved, but he knows that the outcome was Hanzo going to an actual, honest-to-God therapist. The transformation that followed was nothing short of unbelievable, and it was after McCree witnessed Hanzo burn his traditional Japanese garb up on the cliff outside the Gibraltar base, go shopping with Lena, get a bunch of piercings from Lúcio and start actually making use of his facial muscles, that he realized he was in deep, serious, frigging trouble.

He's ended up pining, there's no other word for it. Nearing forty, reformed gangster, former black ops, world-renowned antihero, member of an elite task force — twice! — and he's pining after Hanzo like a goddamn schoolboy. It's laughable, that's what it is, and so he does his best to hide his unfortunate condition.

There are times, though, when all he can do is take his moping, lonely ass somewhere where people won't see.

...Or try to, and get sabotaged by a goddamn nasty bitch of an acquaintance whom he'd had the misfortune to run into back in his Blackwatch days, and who'd enjoyed annoying the shit out of him forever since. "DE NADA", she had the gall to message him, all caps, after she sicced Hanzo on him. Hanzo, _the very person_ he was trying to avoid, the exact source of his problem, the oblivious subject of his dumb infatuation. 

Deep inside, he's aware he should probably thank her at some point. He's not a nice guy, though, and he'll sooner chew off his trigger finger than give her the satisfaction.

(Plus, she'd stuck a bug onto his goddamn hat. That's just not something he can easily forgive.)

* * *

A stupid grin plastered on his face, he purposefully avoids any deeper thinking until after he checks out of the hotel, looks up the availability of the Mexico City telestation, books a teleport, drives there, waltzes through security wearing his bulletproof tired-businessman persona and plants his ass in the waiting room. Only there, winding down from the rush and staring at the inevitably delayed schedule, he lets himself think, recount the facts and maybe freak out a little.

Fact: Sombra somehow knows he's sweet on Hanzo. Not very surprising: that girl probably knows the color of the pope's undies. 

Fact: Hanzo cares about him enough to call him after he's been exposed in his mopey-drunk ways. That one's more surprising; he's hoped, of course, every time they trained together, every time Hanzo smirked at his jokes and every time they covered each other's asses in the field, but he's also very aware of his inability to objectively interpret any clues.

Fact: Hanzo cares enough to ask him to meet half the world away and offer him cake. That one's practically on the 'what the fuck' level.

Fact: Hanzo has basically asked him out.

...Hold it, nope, abort. That right there is a prime example of false hopes and castles in the sky. Fact: Hanzo has invited him to share a drink and a tasty looking cake, and included the rest of the team in the invitation, because Hanzo is actually a swell guy, now that he's mostly gotten rid of his baggage, and apparently likes Jesse well enough to take pity on his lonely ass.

He breathes slowly: in, out. That's better.

When they finally call out his fake name, the teleporter looks so old, he almost expects it to have a wind-up crank somewhere; that would at least explain the delay. There is no crank, though, only a pair of tired technicians, who make him stand in the teleporter's adjustment field for what feels like an entirely unreasonable amount of time — surely that's over the strictest safety requirements, what the hell — before he's allowed to take the step through the shimmering blue surface right into the middle of snowy London.

Well. More like into yet another wait, since he has to get through the adjustment zone on the other end, which is at least ten degrees colder and gives him ample time to realize he's about to step out into freezing temperatures wearing clothing more suited for the Mexican climate. 

After he's frozen his ass off in the cooldown (hah) area and collected his stuff, he checks his comms. Hanzo, true to his word, had sent out a team-wide message asking Lena about the suggested pub meeting, and she's responded with a suggestion of a date (tomorrow evening, GMT), a promise to find a decent, omnic-friendly pub, and an enthusiastic invitation for everyone involved.

There's also a direct message from Hanzo.

_**07:14 [Hanzo]**_ I'll be in London in about six hours, need to wrap up a few things first.

_**07:14 [Hanzo]**_ yes, the cake will last that long.

He doesn't even try to fight the smile. 

_**07:35 >**_ it better, or I'm turning this teleporter around

By the time he's gotten to their usual hotel, checked in and stumbled into the room, mildly hungover, chilled to the bone, half-dead from exhaustion and the teleport lag, there's another one waiting.

_**07:51 [Hanzo]**_ that doesn't even make sense. 

He types in 'your face doesn't make sense', deletes it immediately and thumps his forehead against the door, twice, for good measure. Tosses the comm onto the desk, forces down two glasses of tap water, undresses, sticks the Peacekeeper under the pillow, collapses into bed.

He's sound asleep two minutes later.

* * *

He wakes up with a jolt and aims at the door on pure reflex. Nobody's there, of course. He's disoriented for longer than he'd care to admit — goddamn teleporters — before he remembers, drops the gun onto the pillow and rolls across the bed to reach the desk.

The comm displays 17:36 and a bunch of messages. Dammit.

Most of them are about the upcoming meeting. Lena has narrowed the list of pubs down to three and sent out booking queries. Athena is sending two ships to pick up agents from Asia and Africa. Reinhardt with Torb and Brigitte are close enough to jump on a passenger plane, and Lúcio is taking a teleporter. Amazingly, Lena and Emily have managed to harangue Winston into coming as well, and won't that be a sight to behold: a giant, bespectacled gorilla travelling through the streets of London.

Not a peep from Hanzo, though. 

He's about to send a question about his whereabouts, but hesitates; his dignity is already hanging by a thread, no sense in making it worse. Instead he gets up, groaning: dehydrated, unwashed, stiff, tele-lagged, he feels like shit. His stomach can't decide whether he's hungry or nauseated — probably both — and he really needs a smoke.

Twenty minutes of lingering under the shower and a cigarillo later, he almost feels like a human being again. The stomach has finally made its mind and is transmitting 'FEED ME' on all channels. The comm is still dark.

To hell with dignity. He stabs the conversation with Hanzo with unnecessary amount of force and types before he can second-guess himself again.

_**18:17 >**_ you in London yet? 

The three-dot indicator pops up straight away, inducing an unmanly flutter in his stomach.

_**18:18 [Hanzo]**_ yes. I assumed you would be sleeping, did not want to wake you up.

_**18:18 >**_ aw, that's mighty considerate of you

No response for a moment. He imagines Hanzo scowling at the comm with suspicion, and grins victoriously to himself.

_**18:20 [Hanzo]**_ do you want the cake or not?

_**18:20 >**_ of course I do, I'm about to starve to death here

_**18:20 [Hanzo]**_ then you should probably eat something more substantial than cake.

Now it's his turn to pause and consider pushing his luck. Would a dinner invitation be too suggestive? They've eaten together plenty of times before, but never just the two of them, in a private setting.

Ah, to hell with it. Jesse McCree is many things, but a coward ain't one of them.

_**18:21 >**_ wanna grab dinner first? 

There's just enough pause to make him nervous again. God damn, but he's acting like a schoolboy before his first date.

Hanzo mercifully spares him from humiliating himself further.

_**18:23 [Hanzo]**_ I believe English pubs usually offer food.

_**18:23 [Hanzo]**_ we could scope out one of the pubs Tracer shortlisted for tomorrow's celebrations.

_**18:24 [Hanzo]**_ are you in the Mayfair? it's not far from the second one on the list.

It occurs to McCree that Hanzo might be in the same hotel than him — he doesn't think Athena has deals with any other hotels in central London — and he firmly quashes the following pang of excitement. Christ, he really needs to get this under control. 

_**18:24 >**_ yeah, Mayfair, 16th floor

_**18:24 >**_ you?

_**18:25 [Hanzo]**_ also Mayfair. how long do you need to make yourself presentable?

_**18:25 >**_ me? I'm always presentable

He turns towards the mirrored wardrobe door, shoots a winning smile at his reflection, flexes his muscles, waggles his eyebrows a bit. Adds fingerguns for final effect. Damn right he's presentable.

...Although, he probably should put a shirt on.

Alas, Hanzo doesn't take the bait.

_**18:27 [Hanzo]**_ meet me in the lobby in ten minutes. 

It's five more than he needs, and after he's put on the cleanest shirt he's got left (he should have used the laundry services, dammit), combed his hair and remembered he's got no winter clothing, he realizes he's overthinking, and fretting, again. He considers the Peacekeeper, instead. He's not wanted in Europe, and as an official member of Overwatch he's got immunity and the necessary permits, but packing heat on the streets of London while not technically on a job is asking for trouble, and trouble is the opposite of what he's after tonight. He locks the gun in the safe instead, and feeling weirdly naked without any weapons, finally takes the elevator down.

Hanzo's standing by the window, looking out into the snowy darkness, but turns around the moment McCree steps into the lobby. Jesse's heart does the customary leap at the sight: the archer used to be insanely attractive even before he dropped the super-traditional look, but now — wrapped in a vaguely military hooded jacket, cargo pants, combat boots, with a sexy undercut and a glint of steel above his aquiline nose — he's goddamn breathtaking.

Hanzo greets him with a raised palm and a shadow of a smile. He's holding a bundled package in the other hand; no bow, no quiver. Jesse saunters forward, tipping his hat. "Howdy. It's gonna be hilarious if we get mugged in some alley, all unarmed like this."

Hanzo levels him with an unimpressed look. "Surely you must be capable of disarming a common thug, and if you're not, I assure you I can defend us both. Also, you may not be armed, but I certainly am."

He inspects the archer critically. "Lemme guess, got a knife stashed somewhere?"

" _Two_ knives," Hanzo corrects with a definite note of smugness.

The desk clerk is staring at them, wide-eyed; McCree grins, tips the hat at him and decides they better get moving, before the guy calls the cops. "Is that what I think it is?" he asks, striding towards the exit, nodding at the package Hanzo's holding.

"It is." The hint of a smile is back. "Dinner first, though."

"Can always count on you bein' a fun killer," drawls McCree and, being the perfect gentleman he is, holds the door open for Hanzo.

* * *

They don't get to the pub straight away. Hanzo, the ever observant ninja, notices McCree's chattering teeth, drags him into the first clothing store on the way and damn near forces him to buy a winter jacket. Feeling vaguely emasculated, McCree protests, until Hanzo gives him a thorough once-over and declares the jacket suits him.

Well then. He's up for buying random pieces of clothing, if it gets Hanzo to look at him that way more often.

The pub is where he regains his footing. Hanzo, despite his miraculous transformation, still doesn't deal too well with crowds, and so Jesse is more than happy to take the lead. He surveys the area, applies his considerable charm to get the ladies occupying the perfect spots at the bar to switch places, and offers Hanzo the seat in the corner, where he's shielded from the rest of the patrons by the wall and McCree's own bulk. 

Five minutes in, they're warm, seated in the strategically best spot in the whole pub, and watching the stoic omnic bartender pour the drinks. 

Hanzo eyes the glass placed in front of him with some distrust. "What is this?"

"This, my friend, is Bowmore," declares McCree proudly, swirling the amber liquid around a bit. "One of the finest single malts made by man. It'll warm you right up."

"I'm not cold," mutters Hanzo contrarily, but lifts the glass to his mouth all the same. "Hm. Have you tried Hibiki?"

"Can't say I have," he responds in his best neutral tone, carefully controlling his face. Who knew: there's something about the sight of Hanzo sipping whiskey that raises his blood pressure something fierce.

"It's a Japanese whiskey. If you can't appreciate sake," Hanzo throws him a dirty look over the brim of the glass, "you should at least try Hibiki. But first, eat your dinner. I do not feel like carrying you out of here."

It turns out that the pub serves pretty decent burgers. They mock each other for their eating habits — Hanzo cuts his burger into precise bites and spears each chip with a fork, while McCree uses his hands as Mother Nature intended, and licks his fingers ostentatiously just to rile him up — and get some more drinks. Hanzo actually lets out a victorious "hah!" when the bartender confirms that the pub does, in fact, offer Hibiki; Jesse momentarily forgets he's not supposed to gawk as Hanzo, all proud and regal, orders them two glasses.

"It's seventeen years old," declares Hanzo, cheeks already slightly pinkened, brandishing the glass at him. "Try it."

McCree does; he'd gladly drink boiled dirt if it came with the sight of a mildly intoxicated Hanzo. "It's good," he mutters. It really is; likely better than most he's had in his life. He definitely knows what he's going to have the next time he's lonely and in a sour mood.

Suddenly, Hanzo snorts into his glass. "We forgot the cake!" He reaches under his chair, produces a pretty white box and puts it on the counter, squarely in front of McCree. "As promised."

Jesse lifts the lid; inside lies a clean-cut half of a creamy, spongy, strawberry-covered masterpiece. "Damn, this looks nice."

"It tastes nice, too," assures him Hanzo, proud like he's baked the thing himself. Jesse has a moment of hesitation — the cake looks so perfect in its immaculate Japanese precision, it feels like a sacrilege to touch it with a greasy fork — when the bartender leans in and offers him two clean plates. He grabs them on reflex, and gets handed a pair of forks and what looks a steak knife, as well.

"Normally we discourage bringing in your own food, but — happy holidays," says the omnic cheerfully.

"Thank you," says Hanzo gravely, nodding like he's trying to bow without rising from his seat. Jesse mimes a hat tip and wastes no time in attacking the cake with the knife.

It's delicious. He devours the first slice like a starved man and immediately gets cream in his beard. Hanzo, eating his slice in small, neat chunks, doesn't waste another opportunity to mock him and his barbaric manners; in revenge, Jesse steals two of his strawberries. Hanzo pretends to be offended, but he's too evidently amused to be convincing, so he starts explaining the Japanese tradition of Christmas cakes, instead.

"My father did not approve of Christmas cakes," he says eventually, leveling the remnants of a slice on his plate with a disdainful look. "He hated them as a symbol of Westernization, and we were not allowed to have any as children. So this year, I had one all for myself. Well," he corrects himself, waving the fork in McCree's general direction, "for myself and a friend."

Jesse decides he's not drunk enough to hear Hanzo officially declare him a friend, and signals the bartender over for more booze.

They systematically destroy the cake and order more whiskey. McCree convinces Hanzo to try a few different brands of scotch; Hanzo makes faces at their increasingly ridiculous names and demands to know the correct pronunciation, for which they end up consulting the endlessly patient bartender. McCree eventually distracts the archer from being offended at the Scottish and their impossible language by sharing a few choice stories from the golden days of Blackwatch, including the one where he met Sombra. Hanzo actually laughs at that one, a real, unrestrained belly laugh; before Jesse gets over the shock of it, Hanzo retaliates by reminiscing about their early missions together, including the one where McCree broke his leg, Winston almost fell into a well, and Torbjörn got so mad at the Talon goons, he chased after one armed with nothing but a hammer.

"...And he just turned tail and ran!" Hanzo does an exaggerated impression of a frightened man. "A good six feet of a soldier, all muscle, armed to the teeth, scared of a tiny, angry man with a hammer!"

"Don't let Torb hear you say that," laughs Jesse, the warmth spreading through his belly only partially related to the alcohol. "He'll tell you that size doesn't matter."

As they get drunker and the pub gets warmer, McCree gets rid of the serape and undoes the top button of his shirt; soon after, Hanzo shrugs off his jacket, making Jesse lose his train of thought mid-sentence — he's still not used to seeing Hanzo in fitted t-shirts, and damned if he ever will. Watching Hanzo, fiendishly handsome, pink-cheeked, smiling and rambling, McCree suddenly realizes it's the happiest he's been since forever. The resultant pang of panic must display on his face, because Hanzo, still annoyingly observant despite being a good two sheets to the wind, immediately notices.

"You look like a deer in the headlights," he declares, overpronouncing the syllables just a little bit. "What's the matter?"

"Nothin'," Jesse blurts, realizing with an internal wince that he sounds exactly like a guilty schoolboy. "Uh, I just need the bathroom. I'll be right back with ya."

He pretty much runs away to the toilets, takes a piss, splashes water in his face, leans against the sink and attempts to compose himself. He's no stranger to strong liquors, he knows he's not nearly drunk enough to risk losing control and doing something stupid. Unfortunately, he also knows that the higher he is on the amazing experience of Hanzo's inebriated company, the lower he's going to fall when the evening comes to an end, and they're once again nothing but comrades in arms. The thought of going back to loneliness after he's had a taste of this — whatever it is — fills him with stomach-churning dread.

Time to man up. "Just enjoy it, for crying out loud," he admonishes himself, straightens up, makes a face at his red-cheeked reflection and resolves to take it easy on the booze for a while.

It seems Hanzo's had the same idea, because when he walks back to their spot, there's a tall glass of water in front of each of them. As he sits down, Hanzo slips off his seat, pats him wordlessly on the shoulder and makes his way towards the bathrooms in the careful manner of the consciously drunk; Jesse shamelessly stares at his ass as he walks, then downs the entire glass in one go.

By the time Hanzo comes back, a few droplets of water clinging to the shaved sides of his head, Jesse has mostly succeeded in getting over his little freakout.

"I owe you a big thanks," he says with a warm smile, lifting his refilled water glass in a salute. "This sure beats gettin' pissed and fallin' asleep in a crappy bar in Dorado."

"I would hope so," Hanzo smirks back. "I don't have any major complaints, either. Although your table manners are atrocious and your taste in alcohol could use some refinement."

He produces his best wolfish grin. "At least _I_ can pronounce Bruichladdich."

"Hah!" exclaims Hanzo and punches him in the bicep.

"...and Bunnahabhain..."

Another punch, laughing. "That is not how he said it!"

"...and Laphroaig..."

Hanzo snorts with laughter and responds with a long rant in Japanese, prodding at his bicep every few words. It sounds like it's probably all insults. McCree can't control the dopey grin; an incensed, inebriated Hanzo is an wonderful sight to behold.

Hanzo's movements slow down. Gradually, he stops poking McCree's arm and just... stares.

All of a sudden, Jesse finds himself looking straight into Hanzo's eyes, deep brown, strangely shiny and unnervingly close. When exactly did they get so close to each other? The alcohol-induced pleasant numbness suddenly doubles, as if the intensity of Hanzo's gaze is somehow directly affecting his motor control. Dimly, he registers the sound of a glass landing on the counter — that's Hanzo's, right, he should probably put his away as well, what with the suddenly uncooperative fingers...

His thought process grinds to a halt when Hanzo's eyes dip quickly down to his mouth, then back up. No way that just happened. 

...Or maybe it did, because Hanzo is definitely looking at his mouth again, this time lingering and with intent. 

Wow. This is actually happening. This is fucking real.

He all but drops the glass on the bar, but he doesn't care. They move at the same time and meet in the middle, lips slotting together damn near perfectly, like they've been doing this forever. He can't control a small, blissful sound that escapes his chest; that only seems to spur Hanzo on, because suddenly there's tongue and a touch of metal and Jesse gives up on thinking, lets himself drown in it, exultant and shaky from shock.

Hanzo tastes like whiskey and something else, something amazing that must be Hanzo's unique flavour, and he chases it, wanting nothing else but more of that taste, right now. He pushes forward, almost falls off the barstool, balances himself, realizes his right hand just landed on Hanzo's thigh — all rock-hard muscle under the coarse fabric — and a hot thrill shoots all the way through him. Hanzo's mouth goes slack for a moment, as if hesitant; with a pang of fear through the surge of lust, he thinks he pushed too far and too fast, and tries to pull away.

Hanzo grabs his wrist and presses the retreating hand firmly back down; his other hand shoots up to Jesse's neck, tightens in his hair. "If you stop, I _will_ kill you," he murmurs in a tone that's very far from actually threatening.

"Got it," exhales Jesse and they're kissing again. 

It gets a good deal hotter and dirtier, before they both have to stop to catch their breaths. Hanzo's forehead drops to Jesse's shoulder, and he vaguely thinks they might get kicked out of the establishment if they keep this up; his right hand is clenched tight on Hanzo's thigh, and all he can think of is sliding it up.

"We should probably check if we're coming back here tomorrow," mutters Hanzo into his clavicle, not letting go of his forearm or neck, "before we get ourselves thrown out."

Jesse huffs into his hair. "I'm findin' it kinda difficult to care right now."

Hanzo lifts his head, nosing Jesse's jaw on the way up. "I've waited for this for a long time. I can wait a little more," he says, then immediately contradicts himself by going for another kiss. This time it's softer, and the death grip on Jesse's neck morphs into a slow, stroking motion.

Jesse exhales raggedly and gives in to the temptation to rub his thumb along the seam of Hanzo's pants, just a tiny back-and-forth. He's immediately rewarded by a bite to his lower lip.

"How long?" he asks, attempting not to lose his cool entirely. His head is still swimming from the shock and joy; he's honestly not sure whether he's more drunk on whiskey or Hanzo at the moment. 

He regrets the question immediately when Hanzo, ever precise, pulls away a couple of inches to hum thoughtfully and consider. "Three or four weeks after I came to Gibraltar, I think." Hanzo's pupils are huge in the dim light. "The first few weeks were… difficult."

He remembers that first month vividly: Hanzo had been skittish like a wild animal, barely ever seen around and perpetually scowling when caught outside his quarters, and it was only due to Jesse's lingering nocturnal habits that they ever met at all. "That early? I didn't think you could've noticed anyone, what with all the hidin' from people."

"Unfortunately, you're very difficult not to notice," Hanzo smirks. At this distance, seeing Hanzo smile like that is like a two-by-four between the eyes. Jesse can't help himself, lifts the bionic fingers to stroke the short hair on his temple and leans in to kiss him again, only to hiss in discomfort: he's more than half hard, and his jeans are rapidly progressing from "tight" to "a torture device".

As he squirms on the barstool in an attempt to discreetly adjust himself, Hanzo's smile grows positively diabolical. "Enjoying yourself, I see?"

"Whaddya think," he grumbles in mock offense. "I'm sittin' here makin' out with the most gorgeous man on the planet, whom I've been dreamin' of for the most part of the year, I might add. So sue me."

Hanzo licks his lips, which really doesn't help the situation, glances towards the rest of the pub and back into Jesse's eyes, then gently, but insistently pulls the hand on his thigh a couple inches up. Jesse jolts so hard, he nearly falls off his seat again; Hanzo's mouth catches his just in time to suppress the groan, and he returns the kiss helpless with lust, breathless from the feeling of Hanzo, hard and hot, right there under the pad of his thumb.

_Now we're_ really _going to get kicked out_ , floats through his addled brain, when two things happen at the same time: there's a sound of a throat being cleared on the other side of the bar, and both their comms start pinging frantically.

They jump apart like startled teenagers. To Jesse's surprise, it's not their bartender telling them to get the hell out, but another one, a young girl, maybe mid-twenties. She's smiling awkwardly and holding out two small glasses of something red.

"Congratulations, lads," she says, with a sort of cheerfully embarrassed grin that reminds him vaguely of Mei. "On the house, for good luck."

"Uh. Er," stammers Jesse -- it feels like his brain is about to shut down from the surprise overload. "Thank you kindly, ma'am."

Hanzo accepts his glass without a word. Jesse doesn't dare to look at him right now, but he's got a strong suspicion the archer's blushing like a maiden.

The glasses turn out to contain mulled wine, hot and fragrant. Hanzo puts his down, looks at his comm, groans and plants his forehead right down on the counter. "You gotta be kidding me," mutters Jesse and checks his messages, pretty sure already of what he's going to see.

_**22:13 [UNKNOWN]**_ hey assholes

_**22:13 [UNKNOWN]**_ just took down some photos of you two getting it on in the middle of a pub

_**22:13 [UNKNOWN]**_ you're WELCOME

_**22:13 [UNKNOWN]**_ but maybe GET A ROOM

_**22:14 [UNKNOWN]**_ or at least pay attention to people taking pictures?!

He's honestly not sure whether to be mad or grateful. Before he can come up with an appropriate response, Hanzo's reply pops up.

_**22:15 [Hanzo]**_ thank you, Sombra. I believe we owe you.

_**22:15 [UNKNOWN]**_ damn right

_**22:16 [UNKNOWN]**_ I'm going to send Hanzo the pictures I took down because he's nice

_**22:16 [UNKNOWN]**_ unlike a certain pendejo

Jesse can't help it: he starts cackling hysterically. Hanzo joins in, forehead still on the counter, whole body shaking helplessly with laughter. A minute later, Jesse's in tears; each time he thinks it's finally subsiding, he looks at Hanzo, Hanzo turns his head to look at him, and they're right back where they started.

Eventually, they calm down, exhausted. The mulled wine is thankfully still hot, nobody seems to be paying them any undue attention, there are no photos being taken, and their comms are blessedly silent. Jesse stares at the slice of orange bobbing in his glass and tries to process everything.

Fact: Hanzo likes him back. Unbelievably, yet irrefutably so.

Fact: Hanzo wants him. He's got a solid (heh) proof of that, too.

Fact: Sombra is a bitch from hell... but damned if he doesn't owe her, big time.

Hanzo nudges his shoulder gently, smiles, clinks their glasses together.

"To nosy friends," he says.

Jesse finds he can't disagree with that.

  


**Author's Note:**

> Fanart created by the wonderful [BloomingCnidarians](http://bloomingcnidarians.tumblr.com/post/171607267588).
> 
> I don't know ANYTHING about whiskey. If you do, just try to forgive me, please? ;)


End file.
